


like heartbeats between thunderclaps

by visiblemarket



Series: Mike Casper is Really Phil Coulson [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The West Wing
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Stolen Moments, clandestine hotel hookups, is there a mike casper is really phil coulson tag?, mike casper is really phil coulson, spoilers for The West Wing, terrible flirting, there should be, vague background mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FBI Special Agent Mike Casper walks into a motel room in Calverton, Virginia, and Phil Coulson walks out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like heartbeats between thunderclaps

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, there's a plotline in _The West Wing_ that closes the 4th season and continues into the 5th, where Zoey Bartlet, the first daughter, gets kidnapped. [Special Agent Mike Casper](http://i429.photobucket.com/albums/qq17/visiblemarket/specialagentmikecasper.png) is part of the FBI taskforce investigating.
> 
> At the end of "The Dogs of War" (Episode 5.2), when Zoey gets rescued outside of Calverton, Virginia, it's mentioned that there were sharpshooters there who took out two of the kidnappers. 
> 
> So. That clearly gave me license to write...this. *shrug*
> 
> Title inspired by the poem [“What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand”, by Megan Falley.](http://oofpoetry.tumblr.com/post/44823001824/at-7-35-a-m-you-lay-your-tired-body-on-mine)
> 
> The rest inspired by me being a huge sap, and a little bit by [this gifset](http://coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/40258815575/ahawkinthevents-i-believe-in-nothing-not-the). ~~Aw yiss, handholding.~~

It's a long drive back to headquarters from Calverton.

That's not why he asks to be dropped off at the local Motel 6, but it's good to have a bit of cover, and he's not prepared to come up with something better at two in the morning. 

He doesn't bother checking in; just climbs up the metal staircase and walks all the way down the open-air corridor facing the parking lot. The door to the last room opens just as he reaches it. 

"Hey there, handsome stranger." Clint's voice is low as he leans casually on the doorframe. He looks well-scrubbed and rested, hair a shade darker than when it's completely dry, skin still a little pink. He's barefoot, in jeans and one of his interchangeable grey t-shirts. "No more room at the inn?"

"Apparently not."

“Yeah, I hear there’s a bunch of FBI agents wandering around, taking up space. Know anything about that?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

Clint laughs, pushes off the doorframe. "Need a place to rest your weary head?"

"Are you offering?" he says, and smiling takes no effort at all. Clint grins and steps back, waving him in with a magnanimous arm.

He's barely through the door before Clint’s practically on top of him, one arm slung over his shoulder, the other around his waist. He spares a moment to be concerned: this isn't New York, isn't even D.C., and not far across the parking lot's a bar and what'd looked like an all-night diner. But he hears the door close behind them, the lock click, and he relaxes. 

Clint nuzzles at the hollow of his throat. His hair is damp against Phil's chin, and smells of unfamiliar shampoo. Clint inhales deep, his chest rising against Phil's, and his exhale floods Phil's neck with warmth. 

"Really fucking missed you," he says, low but matter of fact, and Phil is surprised to hear it, surprised he’d say it. He does what he can: deflects. 

"You saw me all of three hours ago, Barton," but he strokes the back of Clint's head anyway, wraps his other hand around Clint's waist. 

"With all due respect, sir, I saw Agent Mike Casper three hours ago. Haven't seen _you_ in about a month."

It's a fair point. He kisses Clint on the temple, feels him sigh. "I've missed you too."

" _Yeah_ you have." Clint kisses his neck, does his slow, deep inhale, followed by a warm, wet exhale again, then pulls back. "You hungry? Diner's a bit of a hole, but it'll be open, I can run down and grab you something while you shower."

Phil tries to answer, but Clint grabs his tie and yanks him into a kiss before he can. Or at least, that’s the intent: their teeth click, Clint's nose bumps into his cheek, and when he tries to lean in to correct he almost gets head-butted for his effort. They break apart with mutual laughter.

"Shit," Clint says, ducking his head. His hands flutter against Phil's chest, smoothing down his tie and the edges of his jacket. He's very close and Phil only wants him closer. "We used to be better at that, right?"

"Much better." His voice is softer than he intended, and Clint peers up at him carefully in response. His palms press flat against Phil's chest, slide up till they're framing his face. He lifts his head, and looks at Phil, steady and sharp, for much too long. Phil stays very still, even after Clint leans in, and when he stops with a barely a breath between them, Phil’s not surprised. "Everything okay?"

"Yessir," Clint says, automatically, and he's too close for Phil to actually see and know for sure, but he gets the feeling Clint smiles. 

This kiss is better, but still tentative. He parts his lips and Clint is slow to respond, tongue flickering against his then retreating. But gradually, eventually, the tension in Clint's body eases, and he makes a low, familiar, maddening sound. Phil associates it with rare days off, with long hours in bed and fresh coffee in the mornings. He could use a little of both right now. He knows he shouldn't, but he pulls Clint closer anyway. 

When they break apart, he knows he's blushing, but he doesn't care. Clint's slightly flushed as well, and grinning. Phil can't help leaning in again and Clint hums against his mouth and wraps his arms around Phil's neck. 

It's Clint who eventually pulls away. Lips swollen, face flushed, but the very picture of polite concern otherwise. "Yea or nay on the food?"

"We ate," Phil says, eager to lean back in, maybe push Clint back toward the bed. Not that he has much energy, but it's been more than a month, closer to two, he'd definitely give it a shot

"Oh yeah? You and your Feebie friends?" Clint grins, pulling back even further, hands playing along Phil's sides, fiddling with his tie again. "Not goin' native, are you boss? That'd be disappointing."

"Just maintaining my cover, Barton."

"You never so much as get pizza with me, Agent Coulson,” Clint says, gazing up at him through his eyelashes. It’s a practiced move, one that shouldn't be as adorable as it is, coming, as it does, from the most competent trained killer Phil has ever known.

"You've never asked," he says, and Clint laughs. He darts another quick kiss to Phil's lips. 

"Shower, then come to bed."

Phil wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close. It's late, he feels better than he has in weeks, why the hell not. "Yes, _sir_."

Clint snorts. "That's fucking weird, man."

"How do you think I feel when you do it?"

"You love it."

Phil shrugs. It's not untrue.

*

The shower's a good idea, and it isn't.

Washing away three days of recycled air, of the stress of the investigation and the weight of responsibility that had kept him running on almost no sleep, is wonderful. The warm steam fogs his mind, though, and he's exhausted, and the only thing that’ll bring back his focus is actual sleep.

And when he steps out of the bathroom, Clint's on the bed, flipping through a magazine, still in his jeans and grey shirt. Phil's knees almost buckle at how perfect he is, all sandy-haired, fresh, and familiar. And the worst thing is, he's not going to be able to do anything about it tonight.

So. It's a little disappointing.

Clint looks up at him. His expression is serious, focused, and all Phil can think is, _God, he really is amazing._

"How is she?" he says.

"She'll be fine."

"Yeah, but how is she _now_?"

Phil sighs. Officially, he can't say. But officially, Clint Barton doesn't exist, so it probably just about works out. "Broken clavicle. She was drugged, they're still bringing her out of it. She's also probably in shock, and the tear gas..."

"Poor kid." 

"Yeah," Phil says. "They're going to do the best they can."

"How are you?"

"Tired."

Clint's expression softens. Phil's not sure why, but he'll take it. 

"You did good," Clint says.

"So did you."

"Yeah, but… for me it was a three hour job, on a full night's sleep. You've been at it for what, three days straight?"

"It's not a competition."

Clint tosses the magazine onto the floor and pats at the mattress next to him. "C'mere." 

Phil goes. Lies down next to him. Clint turns onto his side, presses a hand to the center of Phil’s chest, and kisses him. 

"I really fucking adore you," he says, firm, but with a slight smile. 

"That's nice to hear."

"Is it?" Clint leans back in. Rubs his nose against Phil's, and it's so ridiculous, so ridiculously sweet, that Phil doesn't think he's ever been so in love. 

"I really fucking adore you too." 

Clint grins. "You're right, that is nice to hear."

Another quick kiss, and Clint rolls over onto his back again. 

"I should let you get some rest, huh?"

"Just a little."

Clint makes a soft, concerned noise and kisses his cheek. Phil closes his eyes.

About seven minutes pass. Clint's not touching him, but Phil can tell he's still tense. His breathing is very precise, and the bed hasn't shifted, which means he hasn't moved at all. 

"Can I ask you something?"

Phil considers keeping his eyes closed, but knows better. "Of course."

Clint's not looking at him, or not at his face at least; he runs his fingers over the back of Phil's left hand, traces carefully over his knuckles. Phil keeps very still and watches him chew on his bottom lip for a moment before speaking. 

"D'you…when I'm…in the field, or whatever, you worry about me?"

Phil takes a moment, but still can't figure out what he's asking. So, he hedges. "You've had survival training to rival any special forces unit in the world and the best self-preservation instincts I've ever seen." _And when you bother to use them, I really appreciate it,_ he doesn't add. It's not an argument he wants to have right now. 

"Is that an 'on occasion''?"

It's an _all the fucking time_. He sighs. "It's an 'on occasion'."

Clint rolls over onto his back and his hand brushes against Phil's as he goes. Phil reaches over and tucks his fingers between Clint's. 

"You do anything about it?"

"I remind myself of the survival training to rival any special forces unit in the world and the best self-preservation instincts I've ever seen." 

Clint squeezes his hand. "Does it work?"

"When it has to." 

Clint looks up at him again. Opens his mouth, then closes it, but twists, leans up, and all of the sudden he's half on top of Phil and kissing him. Slow, but with a great deal of intensity. His weight and warmth set Phil's heart thudding, but Clint pulls back before it can go any further. 

"I miss having you with me. In the field."

"I've missed that too.” He isn't surprised to find that he has. Clint's reputation for insubordination has been highly exaggerated, mostly due to his own efforts, but compared to the teams Phil's been leading for the FBI, he's definitely unorthodox. And that is, in the end, the problem: the FBI doesn't exactly encourage the kind of creativity that makes Clint the very best at what he does. There are precious few snipers in the world, much less in the Bureau, who even approach Clint's level, and standard protocols exist to help temper those disparities. Phil can respect that. _Does_ respect that. But on days like today, he is very, very grateful for the range of options that Clint's skill set offers. 

And on any day at all, he is very, very grateful for Clint. Especially when he smiles at Phil like that, _looks_ at Phil like that, with soft eyes and a heartbreaking amount of trust. 

"It was nice to see you after," he says, and yet again, Phil's thrown. 

"Hmm?"

"Today. Or, well, yeah, yesterday. You always come around and shake everyone's hand, or was that just 'cause of me?"

"I always try to."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "It's good for morale. Makes a good impression."

"Huh." Clint's silent for a moment. "They asked me how I knew you."

"How did they know I did?"

"They work for the FBI. You requested me specifically. They can put two and two together."

Phil's eyes close on their own, and it seems like too much of an effort to open them again. "What did you say?"

"That I impressed you in Idaho."

"Mm. Well, that's true."

Clint squeezes his hand, then lets it go. Seconds later, Phil feels fitful strokes across his stomach, tracing over the scars Clint apparently knows by heart. "Idaho sucked."

"Massively." He inhales, then exhales. "But you were very impressive."

"Huh," Clint says again. "You want me to shut up?"

"No," and he doesn't, he likes hearing him, it's been a while since he's been able to from this close. "I just might stop answering after a while."

"Gotcha." Clint pats his stomach, and rolls over. "Mind if I turn the TV on?" 

He's slept through worse. "No." 

"Just want to see if we got a legitimate government again, y'know?"

"It's always been legitimate, Barton." 

"Says who?"

"The Constitution?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "I didn't vote for that fucker, is all I'm saying." Phil courteously refrains from pointing out that Clint didn't exactly vote for Bartlet either. Mailing an absentee ballot from a Chechen prison was a little beyond Clint's civic engagement level.

The television clicks on. Clint turns the sound down, much lower than he needs to. But it's nice, he can hear Clint shift, and settle, and breath. He feels Clint weave their fingers together again, and when he falls asleep, he doesn't dream.

When he wakes, it's a little past dawn: there's barely any light coming around the dark, thick curtains, but he feels rested enough to have slept at least four hours, maybe more.

The sheets are cool against his skin, and there's a warm, familiar weight anchoring him, rising and falling with each shallow breath. One of Clint's legs is tucked between his own; he's out of his jeans and down to his boxers, but has kept his shirt. His head is right under Phil's chin, and he still smells of the strange shampoo, something citrusy and obvious, tempered now by time and sleep and sweat. He runs a hand through Clint’s hair, light, careful, and Clint stirs without waking, just nestles against him, his hand sliding up Phil's chest and around his neck. 

His fingers drift lower, stroke at the base of Clint's skull. Clint lets out a warm, low groan and stretches, back arching. Phil hand moves on instinct, down Clint's side and under his shirt. Clint shifts again, hips rolling, as he lets out a loud, heavy breath across Phil's chest. 

"Clint?"

"Shh." Clint continues his rhythm, slow and smooth, and Phil slides a hand up his back, stroking along his spine. Clint's breathing quickens into loud, almost harsh pants. He's hard, they both are, but Clint's rubbing off against his thigh, and he's barely being nudged by Clint's hip with each shallow thrust. It's frustrating. 

He slides his hand down Clint's back, over his ass, and around the back of his thigh. His hand lingers there, fingers digging into the firm, flexing muscle underneath. Clint gives a muffled groan, and Phil can feel the wet heat of his mouth right through his t-shirt. He squeezes again, then grasps at Clint's waist with his other hand. He drags him over, guides Clint's thigh over his hip. Clint arches against him and leans up. 

It's too dark to properly see his expression, but Phil doesn't get much of a chance to even try before he's being kissed, fierce at first but slackening as Clint continues to thrust. Phil holds on to his waist, strokes at the warm skin where his shirt has ridden up. Clint's breaths come shallow and hot into his mouth, across his face. 

He pins Phil's shoulders down with his elbows, and pulls back for a moment to look at him. Presses their foreheads together, then kisses him again. Languid, deep, even as his thrusts get rougher and lose any kind of rhythm. They're lined up now, rubbing against each other through two layers of clothing, and Phil's okay with that. He wants this to last. He's not sure when they'll get a chance again.

Clint doesn't seem to mind either. He ruts against Phil eagerly. Smiles into his mouth. Squirms when Phil runs his hands along his ribs. Presses his face against the side of Phil's neck, and sighs as he comes. He's still for a moment, mouthing something into Phil's skin as he recovers. 

His breathing's closer to even when he lifts his head again. It's still too dark to read his expression, but Phil can see the slight, dangerous curve of his mouth. Clint darts down, flicks his tongue over Phil's lips and is gone before Phil can react, and then he's making his way down Phil's body, mouth hot on Phil's stomach for second before it slides lower. Phil's okay with that, too. 

He shuts his eyes. Threads his fingers through Clint's hair. Lets his world narrow to the wet warmth of Clint's tongue, the practiced strokes of his hand. Arches up into Clint's mouth. Groans as Clint shoves him back to the mattress and takes him all the way in. 

He comes too quickly. He shudders as Clint swallows around him, repeatedly, and then pulls off and presses his cheek to Phil's hip. Phil runs his fingertips along the line of his shoulders, the base of his neck. He needs the contact. Clint nuzzles against his stomach and makes a satisfied sound that’s almost a purr.

Phil takes a deep, hopefully steadying breath. "Come back up here?" he says. It comes out louder than he wanted, and shaky. Clint nods and crawls back till his chest is pressed against Phil's again. His body's warm, loose, and his skin is damp under Phil's palms. Phil reaches for the covers, which've been kicked down to about their waist, and pulls them up around Clint's shoulders. 

Clint smiles at him, and he smiles back.

"’Morning," Clint says, voice rough, eyes half-closed. He ducks his head for a moment to yawn, and Phil waits till he's done to respond. 

"Good morning." 

"You were on TV earlier."

"Oh?"

"You're pretty good at all that shit."

"All what shit?"

Clint's expression turns serious, although there's a just-visible sparkle in his eyes. "I'm not gonna answer that question," he says, in what Phil assumes is meant to be an imitation of his voice. It's not very good, unless he really does sound like a slightly drunk Tommy Lee Jones. "I'll have the White House get back to you on that."

Phil groans. "Funny."

Clint lets out that low, loose, post-coital giggle of his, and Phil wraps a hand around the back of his head and drags him back for another kiss.

*

They don't go back to sleep.

They don't have time. Phil has to be in DC by nine and is set to brief the President by three, and Clint's due back in New York as soon as possible. Was due back in New York yesterday, actually, in anticipation of a trip to Qumar that Phil's not supposed to know about. It's a miracle he was even stateside when Phil made the call, and close enough to Calverton to get there in time. 

Or maybe less of a miracle, more of a steak dinner he owes Nick the next time he's in town and a very large favor to be determined at a later date.

He looks across the car to Clint, who's insisted on driving him back to DC and catching a flight back to New York from there. _Worth it_ , Phil thinks.

Clint must feel him staring, because he glances over with an almost nervous smile. "What?"

"Nothing," Phil says, reaching over over to squeeze his arm. "It was just good to see you. Thanks for...thanks.”

Clint ducks his head. His smile softens. "You're welcome," he says, and turns his eyes back to the road ahead of them. Phil falls asleep watching him drive.


End file.
